


until the end of time

by BrightNeonSkiMask



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Hunger Games, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Slow Burn, the george/will is very very background
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-07 22:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18882466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightNeonSkiMask/pseuds/BrightNeonSkiMask
Summary: Will had told him a few weeks ago that it would be a mistake to grow attached to the kids from his district. “You’re gonna have it harder than me,” he had said, words slurring as they sat together on the bed in Alex’s flat in the Capitol, downing glasses of expensive liquor. “Most of the kids they send you aren’t gonna even have a chance. Probably gonna die in the bloodbath, so you ought to keep them at a distance for your own benefit, mate.”--Alex was the winner of the 73rd Hunger Games. As District Eight's new mentor, he's been told to set his expectations low and to guard his feelings.James is different, though, and he makes Alex want to believe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's 2019 and i'm really writing a hunger games au about a bunch of british twinks clearly i have regressed
> 
> not proofread because i am ashamed of how quickly i banged this shit out
> 
> also obviously i don't actually ship any of them irl we respect and support their existing relationships in this good christian neighborhood

Alex is sitting in the train car across from his tributes for the games this year.

 

Will had told him a few weeks ago that it would be a mistake to grow attached to the kids from his district. “You’re gonna have it harder than me,” he had said, words slurring as they sat together on the bed in Alex’s flat in the Capitol, downing glasses of expensive liquor. “Most of the kids they send you aren’t gonna even have a chance. Probably gonna die in the bloodbath, so you ought to keep them at a distance for your own benefit, mate.”

 

So now he’s pointedly looking down, pretending to be engrossed in the glass of chocolate milk that he’s holding as the girl sniffles, curled up in a ball in the corner of the couch and the boy stares sullenly at his meal of eggs and sausage.

 

He’s seen the boy around, actually, come to think of it. They said his name during the ceremony, a certain James Marriot. He’s a few years above him in school (not that Alex actually has to go there anymore), but that’s about all he knows about him. He doesn’t recognize the girl at all, which makes sense seeing that Alex isn’t a nonce and she’s only 12, barely out of primary. First year in the reaping and it’s bound to be her last year too. 

 

Alex stares a little harder into the bubbles on his milk. Don’t get attached.

 

The TV in the corner begins playing replays of the reapings from each district. Districts One, Two, and Four are as enthusiastic as ever, with fierce-looking teenagers offering themselves up for the slaughter. Alex catches a glimpse of Will standing on the District Two stage, the same beaming smile on his face that he had running up to the podium four years ago. It’s perfectly manufactured for the cameras, no sign of the simmering hatred that brims under that shiny veneer. 

 

The Alex on TV acts different from Will. He’s less polished, more fidgety, barely able to conceal the disgust that he feels towards the whole process. His smile is clearly forced, slipping when the names of his tributes are called.

 

He doesn’t remember much of the reaping from this year, frankly. Watching this is practically all new to Alex, seeing as he was so caught up in the blur of his thoughts that he pretty much blocked out everything else. He’s out of the reaping now, but the fear of being called still hasn’t left him.

 

On the screen, the girl (her name is Mirabelle, right) shudders on her way up. The crowd is silent. Nobody volunteers for her. Expected, but Alex’s stomach turns all the same. Mirabelle lets out another sob across from Alex.

 

James is different, though. He’s also shaking as he walks but his eyes are hard. When he gets to the stage, he stands up straight and looks ahead, not wavering, not flinching when the announcer prattles on about how _excited_  she is about this year’s games, glare into the crowd deathly cold.

 

Huh.

 

That doesn’t mean anything, though. Alex was a proper mess last year, on the verge of tears all the way to the train, and yet here he is, coaching the next generation of lambs to the slaughter. Just because someone acts like they’re tough shit doesn’t mean they won’t be lying in a pool of their own blood within the first hour of the games.

 

It’s enough, however, for Alex to stop ignoring the two people sitting across from him. James looks kinda out of it, demeanor guarded, but the determination that he had displayed during the reaping is still there. Mirabelle is still crying, but she’s settled down somewhat.

 

Surprisingly, James is the one that speaks first. 

 

“So, mate, I don’t suppose you’ve got any useful advice for us?”

 

“What?” Alex blinks, setting down the milk.

 

“You know, how you won, what we should know, the lot.” 

 

“Um.” Alex probably should have prepared himself more for this moment.

 

James’s eyes soften a little at Alex’s hesitance, and it hits Alex that he isn’t ready for this. He knew what was going to happen in these two weeks of course, Will had warned him about that already. It’s different, however, when the two kids are sitting in front of you, waiting for you to guide them through what may be the last days of their lives.

 

All three of them should still be struggling through school, James ready to graduate in a few months, Mirabelle having fun with her friends in the streets. Alex wishes that he was back home with his mum and dad, not on his way to the games again.

 

It’s not like he has any useful information to give them anyway. Alex had won on dumb luck, stumbling through the woods and hiding at the first sign of trouble. He had only killed twice: once when he had pushed the District Three girl who was chasing him down into a lake (he though she would have known how to swim, honest) and then at the very end of the games. He and the District Four boy were the last two, and Alex had finally managed to get him in the stomach with a spear after what seemed like hours of ducking out of the way of his arrows. 

 

He had slit the boy's throat quickly after out of pity and weariness, Alex himself bleeding from the arrows in his left arm and thigh. He’s not like Will, trained by his district to kill in the arena since he was six years old, conditioned to be stoic towards bloodshed and death. Alex doesn’t know the least thing about surviving.

 

And he says as much to James. “I don’t know how I won. I got lucky, and that’s honestly the best tool you’ll have in the arena.” Alex looks up at the TV, ignoring James’s furrowed brow and Mirabelle’s glassy stare. It’s changed to playing highlights from last year’s games. The Alex on TV thrusts a spear into a nameless boy, cold, emotionless, unfeeling.

 

Alex turns the TV off. He continues to drink his milk.

 

James goes back to eating his cold breakfast.

 

——

 

They reach the Capitol in an hour or so, the scenery changing to that of cool marble and glossy blue lakes. It’s sleek and modern, and even Alex walks towards the window to stare in awe with James and Mirabelle.

 

“It’s nice, innit?” Alex asks, fixated on the tall buildings, taller than even the statehouse back in Eight. “Still not used to how they live here.”

 

“It’s amazing,” Mirabelle breathes, fear momentarily forgotten. The sheer amazement she exudes is enough to make Alex crack a smile. In the corner of his eye, James is also trying to catch a glimpse of the skyline.

 

The train stops, and they’re ushered off into the Capitol. Throngs of people stand to the side, watching them the same way that Alex, Mirabelle and James watched the city through the train windows. They’re oddities in this strange place, something for the citizens of the Capitol to gawk at.

 

When they reach the Training Center, James and Mirabelle are led off to be gussied up by the stylists. As soon as they’re out of sight, Alex is tackled from behind. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that it’s Will.

 

“It’s my second-favorite victor!” Will exclaims, grabbing Alex by the shoulders and wrapping him in a hug. Some of the older victors stare at them.

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Alex grumbles, trying to hold back a grin. “Missed ya too. Have you seen George yet?”

 

“He’s in his room, we can talk to him later.” Will is still smiling, but is now looking at Alex with concern. “How are you holding up back here?”

 

“It’s—It’s hard.” That’s all Alex has to say, really. Will grips him a little harder.

 

He had been terrified the first time he saw Will in person. Will had been the victor four years ago, and Alex still remembers watching his games when he was 12. He had plowed through the competition, racking up six kills throughout the games. District Two made him into a killing machine, but that’s not the Will that Alex knows.

 

After Alex’s games, he had taken him under his wing, accompanying him at the glitzy Capitol parties, coming up to Alex’s flat when Alex calls him after he wakes up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and a scream caught halfway in his throat. With how much time they spend together, Alex is sure that half the Capitol think they’re shagging. 

 

He’s still seen what Will is capable of, of course, but now he knows that he’s haunted by his actions in the arena, still sees the bodies of the kids he killed in his dreams. Will’s just a lot better at hiding his trauma than Alex, always ready for the press with a glowing smile.

 

“Let’s go upstairs,” Will says quietly. “Think George will be happy to see us.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ought to clarify that the underage warning is because alex is 17. if you're interested:
> 
> james: 18, tribute for 74th hunger games
> 
> alex: 17, won 73rd hunger games
> 
> george: 19, won 71st hunger games
> 
> will: 22, won 70th hunger games
> 
> there might be mentions of other people here and there but they're not important lmao
> 
> if something sounds off it's cause i'm not british lmao feel free to britpick in the comments

“So, how are your tributes this year?” Alex asks Will on the way up to George’s.

 

“You know, the usual.” A flicker of disgust flashes across Will’s face. “Yours?”

 

“Mirabelle’s not gonna make it,” Alex says. He hates to say it, but it’s true. She’s a tiny thing, not cut out for the brutality of the games. Even Alex had had some basic knowhow of self-defense before going in. “James might have a chance, but you know—”

 

“Yeah.” Will cuts him off. “Sorry mate.” Alex is too.

 

The bell dings as they reach the seventh floor, doors opening up to see George sprawled out on the couch, scarfing down a bag of crisps, eyes trained on the TV. He turns at the sound of their arrival, and then goes right back to eating.

 

“Thought you’d be downstairs mingling with the sponsors or something, Will,” George says between bites.

 

“Fuck off,” Will laughs. “They already like me enough, kissing their arses can wait.” He plops down next to George, sides touching. Alex sits down a respectable foot away on George’s other side. “What are you watching?”

 

“God, who fucking knows.” Two gaudily-dressed Capitolites are commentating over the reapings, betting on the survival of each tribute. They’re on District Seven, George’s tributes, and they’re really a sorry bunch. Two mousy-looking kids that slowly walk onto the stage, the boy tripping on the steps. The pink-haired commentator says something about feeling sorry for them, and the one with garishly long fingernails shakes her head in pity.

 

“You really got lucky this year, didn’t you,” Alex says grimly. George just grunts.

 

Then the screen switches to District Eight. George perks up when he sees James on stage.

 

“Oh, I remember watching this one. Reckon you could get something out of him,” George says, pointing at the screen. Will nods, agreeing.

 

“He’s still got some fight left in him. Might make it pretty far,” Will says.

 

“Sorry about the girl though,” George continues. “Shouldn’t be sending kids that young to die in the arena.”

 

“Shouldn’t be sending anyone, really,” Will adds. 

 

The TV announcer calls James a _strapping young lad, this one is_. Gross.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Alex says, after a moment. “One of Will’s or JJ’s kids is probably gonna take him out halfway through if he doesn’t die in the bloodbath.” 

 

The room is quiet except for the chatter of the TV. Alex’s right, though, so they switch the topic to something less consequential.

 

“Heard the stylists for Eight are actually good this time,” Will starts. “Thank god, because I wouldn’t be able to bear watching a repeat of last year.” George lets out a laugh, almost spilling his bag of crisps.

 

Alex’s outfit at the opening ceremony last year had been absolute trash—literally, almost. He and his partner had been dressed in rags of torn-up fabric. Very attractive.

 

“Maybe they’ll finally do something worthwhile with the textile theme this year,” Alex chuckles. “Glad they got rid of the old hag.”

 

“We’ll see tonight.” Will smirks, head resting on George’s shoulder. “We’ll see.”

 

——

 

The ceremony is just as hectic as Alex remembers it being. He’s sitting in the front with the other mentors, next to George and Will.

 

The cheers of the ravenous crowd are deafening. They only grow louder when the voice over the loudspeaker announces “Are you all ready?” Screams erupt from all sides of the track.

 

And they’re off.

 

Districts One and Two look impeccable, as always. Will must be proud, he supposes, though he and George both know that he can’t really stand most of the bloodthirsty tributes that they send him. Alex thinks that it’s because Will sees too much of his former self in them.

 

Most of the rest are nothing to write home about. Seven is especially bad this year, which prompts a laugh from Alex. They’re dressed up as what seem to be…he doesn’t know, actually, and he tells George as much.

 

“My guess is as good as yours,” George responds, shaking his head. “Don’t know what the fuck they were thinking, draping them with those plastic leaves like that. Eight though,” he continues, eyes on the racetrack. “Eight is looking quite nice this year.”

 

Alex looks towards the track, and there are James and Mirabelle, decked out in fine silks and linens, fabric so extravagant that there’s no way that Alex could have afforded it before his victory in the games. They look like royalty, cloaks trailing behind them. It’s nothing groundbreaking, really, but it’s still much better than the monstrosity that was last year’s outfits.

 

What really catches Alex’s eye, however, is James. He stands with purpose, smiling an easy grin as we waves to the roaring crowds. The coldness from the reapings and the train ride is gone, and instead he exudes confidence and warmth. That’s one of the most important things in the days leading up to the games; it’s what gets you sponsors. If he keeps up this same energy in the interview, he might be able to rack up a decent following before the games even begin.

 

Alex had been practically shaking in his boots when he was in James’ place last year. He had been too nervous to do anything but grip the front of the cart and stare straight ahead. He had stuttered through his interview too, and gotten a less-than-perfect score of a 5 on his training demonstration. To be perfectly honest, he has no right to be sitting up here with everyone else.

 

But as he watches the chariots race by, Alex thinks that he might be different.

 

——

 

Alex stumbles back to their floor that night, a little tipsy from the party they had been forced to attend. When George and Will had left to do god-knows-what, Alex had quietly removed himself from the party, ready to crash into his bed and fall into a deep, hopefully dreamless sleep.

 

He didn’t count on James blocking the way, makeup washed off and dressed down. They stare at each other, Alex standing as the elevator closes behind him, James sitting on the couch. 

 

James is the one to break the silence again. “Are you drunk?” Alex wonders what he must look like for him to say that.

 

“Not drunk enough for this shit.” Alex looks around. “Where’s Mirabelle?”

 

“In bed.” He’s eating a banana, which he extends to Alex. “You want one? They don’t have these back in Eight.”

 

Alex ignores the piece of fruit in favor of cracking open a beer from the refrigerator. James’ eyes follow him the whole time.

 

“You want something?” Alex asks, pouring the beer into a glass. James just stares back at him.

 

Alex is ready to leave when James responds: “You get me or Mirabelle any sponsors? Really not trying to die in the arena because I got my leg fucked from an infection or something.”

 

Alex had not, in fact, been trying to get them any sponsors. It’s what he should have been doing at the party, really. Instead he had trailed behind Will the whole time, ignoring anyone who tried to talk to him.

 

It’s his first year back, give him a break.

 

He chooses to down his beer instead of saying anything to James. James gets the message and huffs, throwing his head back against the cushions.

 

“You were good today, though,” Alex says when he finishes his beer. “All smiles and waves at the ceremony. That might get you something.” He goes to crack open another can even though his head is beginning to fully swim with liquor. 

 

“Felt like I had to ham it up for the audience. Seems like half of the game is just getting them to like you, especially since Eight isn’t really known for their prowess in the arena.”

 

Alex hums. He’s not wrong—Alex was the first winner in 20 years from his district.

 

“Really didn’t take you to be the type to make it,” James says suddenly, eyes cold as he looks at Alex. That sobers him up a little. “I remember seeing you around back when you were in school.”

 

“Did you now.” Alex pours out the can. 

 

“You didn’t talk all that much.” Alex fiddles with his sleeve as James talks. “I was shocked when you were called up last year. We all were.” James sighs. “You know, after you won you had loads of girls at school salivating after you. Shame you never came back.”

 

“They really shouldn’t be.” Alex downs a second glass of alcohol.

 

“Aren’t you a little young to be drinking like that?” James asks.

 

Alex scoffs and sets the glass down with a thud. “Probably,” Alex responds. “You sound like Will right now.”

 

“Will Lenney?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He’s terrifying. Saw him in the games that year.”

 

“And I’m not?”

 

“Like I said, you don’t seem like the type. Aren’t the type. Will is.”

 

“You don’t know Will, then.” James is quiet at that, for once. “Keep up the charm, though, and I reckon you could pull off a Mr. Will Lenney this year. Have the Capitol eating out of your palm.”

 

James seems to mull the idea over in his head. “You’re waffling, mate.”

 

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.” Alex yawns. It’s getting harder to think, between the booze and how tired he is. “Well, I’m gonna go sleep now. Training starts tomorrow. See you then.”

 

Alex leaves before James can answer, falls on the bed in his room, and passes out.

 

——

 

Alex wakes up, head throbbing. Probably shouldn’t have drunk so much last night.

 

When he walks into the kitchen after his shower, James and Mirabelle are already there. He ignores them as he grabs one of the Capitol’s hangover cures from a cabinet and swallows the pills dry. The cabinet’s filed with various types of medicine, stuff that you’d be hard-pressed to get back in the districts. It’s one of the only things he likes about living in the Capitol for half the year.

 

When the pain in his head goes away, he sits down at the dining table, saying a quick thank you to the servant that brings them their meal. He’s ready to eat his breakfast in peace when suddenly, as expected, James pipes up from across the table.

 

“Anything we should know before we leave for training?” Mirabelle is silent next to him, looking expectantly at Alex.

 

Luckily, Alex actually has learned something from his time in the games. “Yeah, actually,” Alex says around a mouthful of egg. James perks up. “The plants station is a lot more important than you’d expect. Unless you’ve got sponsors, you’re probably not gonna be able to get much actual food in the arena, so it’s a good idea to know what you can eat and what you can’t. Ought to learn how to start a fire and how to swim too.”

 

“Weapons?”

 

“Try them out, I suppose. Avoiding confrontation at almost all costs worked for me.” Alex thinks a little while he chews. “Don’t get into fights with the other Tributes at training. Don’t make allies either. You really shouldn’t be talking to anyone except each other, to be honest.”

 

“Maybe that’s just your antisocial tendencies talking.”

 

“I’m being serious though,” Alex continues, ignoring James. "Alliances always break down in the arena when someone realizes that your teammates might be the only people keeping you from winning.” Alex had saw it happen while spying on the career camp, with the girl from District Two taking everyone out while they slept until the commotion woke the boy from Four up. He had stabbed her with her own dagger and left her to bleed out.

 

They eat breakfast in silence after that.

 

——

 

“Why don’t you talk to Mira?” James asks him that evening. Alex has just returned from a dinner, during which he had actually tried to chat up some of the sponsors, feeling guilty about his poor showing at the party the day before. He had managed to reel in a few promises for James, though there had been nobody who’d been willing to bet on Mirabelle’s survival. 

 

“Mirabelle’s not gonna make it,” Alex says, kicking off his dress shoes and shouldering his jacket onto the ground. “Youngest victor in history was fourteen and he was a career from Four. Best not to get attached to a kid that’s gonna end up dying anyway.”

 

“Seems kind of selfish to ignore her just so you feel a bit better when she dies.”

 

“Perhaps.” James squints at Alex for a bit, then goes back to watching the television. “You’re really watching this shit?”

 

“They gave me a nice TV, so I’m gonna use it. The one back home is shit.” He changes the channel. “What else am I gonna do to pass the time?”

 

“I don’t know, not watching Capitol propaganda?”

 

“Don’t think you have to worry about me suddenly praising the Capitol, mate.” Alex supposes he’s right. "Training went well, by the way. Surprising how bloody difficult it is to make a rabbit trap.”

 

“What about Mirabelle?”

 

“She’s got an eye for plants,” James says. “Tried to learn how to use a sword, but it was too big for her tiny frame. Could barely hold it up.”

 

“Dagger might be better for her then.” Alex sits down next to James. “Is she doing okay?”

 

“As okay as she can be, really,” James sighs, kicking his feet up onto the table. _So not okay._ “We’re all coping, though the careers seem to be taking things in stride.”

 

“Been trained since they were kids, of course they’re doing fine.”

 

“Imagine doing all that and then dying in the arena,” James scoffs. “What a waste.”

 

“It’s worse when you win though,” Alex says, soft. “Dead tributes don’t remember the games or what they did.” He trails off, staring blankly into the wall above the TV. Fuck, he could really go for a drink right now.

 

He looks away, suddenly very tired. James has stopped watching the television and is now just staring at Alex, eyes narrowed. He looks like he wants to say something, but keeps his mouth closed. Finally he sighs and stands up, turning off the TV.

 

“Think we need some fresh air,” James says, pulling on a jumper laying on the table. "Not good to be stuck here every night with nothing else to do but watch talking heads.”

 

“Oh, so now you’re against watching mind-numbing Capitol propaganda?” Alex looks out the window. It’s getting dark, the sky turning shades of pink. James is right though—watching TV, stressing about his tributes and drinking himself into a stupor can’t be doing him any good. “Could go to the roof. I don’t really want to stay here either.” He looks towards Mirabelle’s room. “She gonna be alright?”

 

“Mira will be fine. I’ll check in on her when we get back, talk to her a bit. Ought to give her some space anyways after her first day at training.” 

 

“Alright.” _Don’t get attached_ , Will’s voice rings in Alex’s ear. “Let’s go then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i almost made jill hudson the president but i respected myself just enough to stop before it could come to that
> 
> also very happy about the response to this purely self-indulgent fic :) if you liked it drop a comment!! xx

**Author's Note:**

> a little nervous but i hoped you liked this! pls leave a comment if you did because they motivate me (or feel free to roast me that's fine too)


End file.
